


Game Point

by girl_wonder



Category: Wimbledon
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_wonder/pseuds/girl_wonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter/Dieter - "What about blokes?" Peter asked. "Ever made them a pre-match habit?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Point

Title: Game Point  
Author: fryadvocate  
Disclaimer: I don't own the movie _Wimbledon_ or the characters in it.

Summary: "What about blokes?" Peter asked. "Ever made them a pre-match habit?"

 **Love-all**

Peter says, "Oh, god. How have you been, mate?" and hugs him tight.

Dieter hugs back because this is Peter and no matter what's happened, he's used to laughing at Peter's first few serves, when he's still relaxing out of that cramped back. The first few are always off, he needs to stretch out, remember how to work through the pain.

They go easy on each other the first few points, not yet playing for real, playing to warm up, loosen muscles, make joints too young to feel this old work right. For the first few games they play for the rhythm of it, like they're at this for fun.

The first point is scored by Peter and the look on his face is surprised, smile breaking, says, "You must be getting old, to let that one get through."

Dieter's knees won't let him make that reach yet, so in retaliation, Dieter serves one deep, making Peter reach, rethink and let it go. With any other player, Peter would have reached, stretched his worn muscles, twisted his spine back. For anyone else, he would have done that, because he is Peter Colt, the man who once beat a player rated eleventh in the world and he has a reputation to maintain.

With Dieter, Peter doesn't pretend that he can make that hit without more warm-up.

Already in his late twenties he is aging, he is aged, they both are. This game has made them old and the only benefit is that now they can be old friends.

After that they play in earnest, balls reversing direction when Dieter slams his racket hard into them. Rhythm is lost trying to keep one step ahead. Without meaning to, he has already turned these practices into habit: the ball, hit, Peter, ball, hit, Peter. The pattern becomes its own too-fast pulse.

Today they will not tire each other out, they will be careful, they will go to a bar and not drink too much, they will hit on women and not take any home. Years at this game have taught Dieter that there is superstition and talent and if you're going to win, really win, win big, you need both. His talent is in his arm, in his serve, in his backhand. His superstition is in Peter, in these practices, in waking up at the same time, in shitting the same way.

"Bar?" Peter says.

"You know me too well, my friend," Dieter smiles because they both know it isn't knowledge, it's habit.

 **15-love**

There are sometimes surprisingly attractive women who follow tennis.

"Groupies," Peter says, swallowing a sip of beer. The tone of his voice implies admiration. "Best lays I've ever had. Well, except for that girl in Hawaii, she was amazing."

After years, Dieter has finally realized that Peter will not kiss and tell about his girls. He will not drink and talk about women as objects, if this one's breasts are real or if that one kisses well. Instead he talks about women with a strange philosophy of desire and respect.

Dieter wonders if that is why so many women sleep with him.

"I would not know," Dieter has to try harder to speak correct English when he is drinking. Even without getting drunk he finds himself talking to an attentive Peter about the flaws in his playing, only to realize he is speaking German. Peter laughs the longest when Dieter apologizes, blushing, knowing that his accent makes the apology sound as if it is in a foreign language already.

Peter takes a drink of his glass of water, sliding his thumb through the condensation when he sets it down next to the beer bottle. "You don't sleep with birds before a match?" He grins, "You should try it, great way to relieve the stress."

Dieter waves his hand as though shooing away an irritating insect. Trying to explain would be too much, Peter must know this as Dieter does, so he raises his beer bottle.

Tapping the bottles' necks together with a hollow clink, Peter says, "To superstition and habits."

For a moment they both drink, the noise of the bar filling in their comfortable silence.

"What about blokes, then?"

Out of surprise, Dieter chokes on his beer, coughing out snot and spit and the foam of beer into his palm. Mopping up the mess with napkins, he shakes his head at Peter who is laughing with the pure joy of it.

Knowing Peter for as long as he has, he knows that this is just how Peter shocks him, gets him to release the tension. However, the things that Peter knows about Dieter are limited to these few days that they spend together, living in each other's space. Dieter imagines that behind these days, in the periphery that he likes to call his life, there are pieces of him that Peter doesn't realize are there.

This is the worst kind of conceit, because he knows that all that exists beyond these days, beyond the white-lined green court are a handful of personal secrets that live quietly only because Peter hasn't asked yet.

"Only when they are very attractive," Dieter says finally.

It is Peter's turn to choke, and he laughs as he wipes water from his eyes. His whole face has turned red, eyes bloodshot and he is delighted.

When he stops laughing, Peter's eyes focus on Dieter's, the half smile he wears unwavering even when Dieter tilts his head and gestures with his room key. "I'm going. Early match tomorrow."

"Yeah, let's get out of here," Peter says finally.

 **15-15**

The trouble is now they must continue. Dieter wins his first match, smiles and waves at the loyal German contingent. He would sign autographs, but as Peter has pointed out, there is nothing more embarrassing than finding out they were there for the other player.

Dieter changes before Peter's match, washing off the sweat of work, the sweat of nervousness, the sweat of exhilaration. He puts on a new shirt, new shorts and walks out to Peter's court.

There are things in his life that Dieter treats as he does tennis. The planning that goes into a match he uses when preparing dinner parties with his mother. The immediacy of thought and action he uses when moving with light, quick feet to just hit the ball, he finds himself reusing in a different context when talking to women. Tennis becomes complete focus for him, the background noise of his life fading into the sound of a racquet hitting a ball hard, unique in all the world.

Peter is playing well, he is as the American players are so fond of telling news reporters, "in the zone." As his practice partner, Dieter knows how to push him right to that place, where planning an attack and playing the game become quicker than the ball. He knows that this new player clearly hadn't looked up Peter's injuries, because he is playing like they are his elbows.

Peter's elbows are fine, and his game is beautiful.

The angle of the ball that Peter hits back shows Dieter what he's planning because Dieter's been there, on both sides of it. Peter plays well when it's not a match where too much is on the line. The umpire calls it, in the strange flat, British way of being indifferent, and the British fans cheer.

More brave than Dieter, Peter signs a few autographs before heading back to the locker room. Dieter falls into step automatically, meeting Peter's eyes and nodding.

"There are worse things to get roped into by superstition," Peter says, the edges of his mouth pulling down, failing to hide his grin.

Dieter has found that Peter has sex like he plays tennis, stable and slightly brash. He puts all of himself into both. Idly Dieter wonders what pressure he'd have to put Peter under to watch him fall apart in bed.

 **15-30**

Peter orders them breakfast, and makes Dieter take a shower while he takes the tray, unveiling the farce that England passes off as fresh fruit in December. Toweling his hair, Dieter says, "I have been to Hawaii. That is not pineapple." He does not mention the pathetic attempt at strawberries.

If Peter looked at half his opponents as openly wanting as he's looking at Dieter now, surely he would win more matches. "Come here," Peter commands, holding up the strawberries encased in a sugar syrup.

Dieter drops the towel to the bathroom floor, smiling at Peter's open appreciation. "Other one," Peter says, indicating the one around Dieter's waist.

"Not until you tell me what you are going to do with those," Dieter indicates the bowl and the spoon, amused at the whole scenario. The towel on his waist is soft, in England he's found that he always stays at hotels with soft towels, and even it's thickness cannot hide his interest in the new game that Peter is proposing.

"Well, if you come over here, you'll find out." As if to prove his point, he licks strawberry syrup off of the spoon.

With a mock sigh, Dieter asks, "Why did you have me shower if I will just have to do it again later?"

Peter's grinning and neither one of them has matches for hours.

 **30-30**

The morning chill is still and from his position on an empty practice court he can hear the loud sucking-popping sound of balls being hit in the dead center of racks. Finishing his stretches, he jogs in place for a moment before running to one side of the court, stopping, turning on a half second notice, other side. His knees ache, hurt, but he feels his speed increase.

Peter's told him how dangerous it is. If he hurts himself, injures himself, he'll unquestionably lose. No takebacks, Peter says, in a false American accent.

Looking up, he sees Peter watching him across the court, doesn't think about it at all, files it away that Peter got up earlier than he likes to watch Dieter practice changing direction.

 **15-40**

Dieter does not ask questions like, "What if someone finds us?" or "How did you find this place?" because Peter already knows his weaknesses. In tennis it is his elbow, one of his knees and a habit of reaching for backhands. In bed, it is the way that Peter licks up his neck, tonguing just behind his ear.

They are both working around the injuries that only become more evident the longer a tournament goes on. Of them both, Dieter thinks that he is the better player, but his body is giving in to hurts much more swiftly than Peter's. It is mostly Peter's mind that is losing to younger, faster, stronger, more agile boys.

On his ribs, Peter has spread his palm, open, creating the too hot contact of post workout flesh on flesh. There are reasons that Dieter likes to shower immediately after a match, and Peter is making him forget every single one when he licks away the sweat and grunge, not mentioning the workout smell.

During tournaments, if he is winning, Dieter likes to live in a bubble of repetition, the same events happening in the same way over and over. In this way, he does not have to think that today he is playing someone who is rated twelfth worldwide, whereas yesterday he is playing a nobody from Spain. He repeats the same day over and over again and in that way continues winning.

He believes this. In the past, his repetition has never included Peter catching him around the shoulders just after his match, leading him down an empty hallway, ostensibly speaking about his match. Any previous repetition has definitely never included him saying, "Peter, do you even know who I was playing?" before Peter prods him into an open janitor's closet.

Never before has he let himself be backed up until the back of his skull hits a shelf, hard, let Peter take off his damp shirt without preamble, _helped_ Peter take it off, and drape it on the shelf next to him. The whole room smells of disinfectant and citrus, and he feels heady breathing it in, but maybe that's just because Peter's somehow managed to get a hand down his shorts, while still suckling at his nipple.

Outside, there is the echo of deep voices on tile walls, the sounds of curses and shouts, the sounds of a tournament, muffled and then filtered through the dirty sucking sound that Peter makes, the low sighs Dieter tries to muffle.

"Won my match," Peter says, dragging his thumb across the wet slick of his saliva on Dieter's nipple. "You?"

"Ja," Dieter laces his fingers into Peter's hair, English blond which is blended with hints of red that Dieter never sees on white-blond country German girls.

For half a second Peter holds his mouth away from Dieter's. "Guess we have to keep on, then," Peter says before leaning in to suck on Dieter's lower lip.

 **Game Point**

Peter's match is a few hours after Dieter's, and briefly in the shower, Dieter thinks about finding him and removing the inevitable tension in ways that he's never tried before. But, he has no idea where Peter is, he wasn't at Dieter's match, and it's unlikely that he stayed in Dieter's bed long enough for the maid to find him there.

In the past few days, Dieter has realized that Peter has the English sense of propriety about sleeping with a man. As all things that he accepts about Peter, he looks the other way, pretends that it does not hurt. When he finishes his shower, there are fans and interviews, his agent excited at how far he's gone. His agent speaks in quick German, efficient English. She has never bothered to read Shakespeare in English, a fact which Dieter thinks has affected her appreciation for the language.

At lunch he has the same ham sandwich he's had since the tournament began, because after a few days the repeated meals begin to blend into one another. Eventually, he moves past being sick of the same food and into a stage where he can't remember when he had the bad sandwich and when he had the amazing one. His manager catches him as he's about to leave, leads him to the camera set up to the side of the dining common, and wipes her teeth with her tongue. He follows suit and she holds up a compact mirror so that he sees where the lettuce is stuck.

"Be nice," his agent commands in German. He grins at the reporter, and watches her smile back.

Peter's already started by the time that Dieter manages to get away from the pretty reporter, he's playing strong. Dieter sees the exact moment when Peter begins to doubt. Because talent and superstition only get one so far, then the ball doesn't connect when you expect it to, then the other player anticipates what you're about to do, then you get a speck of dust in your eye and scrub at it, but still see everything through a haze of tears.

When it happens, Dieter knows that Peter's game is going to fall apart, piece by piece like the ocean coming in to wash away a sand castle, waves crashing and breaking it apart until all that's left is smooth sand without any evidence that once something perfect had been constructed there.

Feeling guilty for knowing his friend will fail, Dieter still wishes he could end the match now, before Peter has to suffer three more games. It is masochism that makes him watch, and he does, all the way to the end when Peter accidentally strikes a ball girl in the face with his racket and carries her off the court. Match over.

Dieter waits with the appearance of nonchalance for Peter, outside the locker room because players on the tournament track tend to gossip about everything.

Brushing by him, their heavy tennis bags colliding with force enough to make both of them wince, Peter says, "Ready?"

It's too casual, the invitation, like they're going to go eat dinner instead of back to the hotel. Peter is silent in the cab, resting his cheek on his thick leather bag. This is not a situation that Dieter has ever learned how to talk through.

Riding up in the elevator, they both stare at the rising numbers, shoulders hurting, backs hurting, elbows feeling the warm heat of blood rushing into injured areas. Usually it is Peter that pulls them out of this, points out the pretty women, makes a joke at their age, pushes Dieter up against the side of the elevator and kisses him like it's enough to make up for their pain.

But, Peter has lost and Dieter hasn't.

In the room, Peter is suddenly there, all hands and tongue and the same desperate needy sound he made when he was winning. Kissing Peter back is such a relief that Dieter doesn't think about their bags dropped on the floor, the dangerous knife of pain he feels when he bends his right knee too far.

"Well," Peter says, his voice rich with the same charm that made Dieter go back to practice with him after their first practice together. "Looks like I'll just have to make sure you're very relaxed tonight so you can play well tomorrow."

Dieter knows this: no matter what happens after the tournament, and he won't fool himself into thinking that this is more than friendship with Peter, during a tournament all he has is talent and superstition. That is fine with him.

*****

End


End file.
